


A Fate Worse Than

by neomeruru



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-typical Slavery, Inability to Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Trespasser, Suicidal Ideation, Tranquil!Dorian, Unwanted Sexual Advances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4868588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't have the Rite of Tranquility in Tevinter, not officially. They can, however, punish certain unruly magisters for sedition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Self_ , I thought, _what if I punished Dorian a little more_. And lo, this is what become of it. Look upon my works and despair.
> 
> With thanks to [AislinCade,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AislinCade/) [Iambic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iambic/), and [Twelvicity (Rii)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvicity/) for brainstorming and dialogue help, and to [amurderof](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amurderof/) for the beta.
> 
> Skip to the end of the chapter for spoilery notes on the warnings for each chapter.

The courier is waiting for Bull at the inn when he and the boys return from the field, about to be several hundred gold and a few stories richer. He's a scrawny kid, whip-thin like a reedy tree, probably weighs less than nothing on a fast cross-country horse. Freckles across his bronze cheeks and shoulders, windburn everywhere else. He stands when Bull enters, eyes wide.

He's sure the others see the dagger at the boy's hip with the Tilani seal on the pommel, and Krem takes up his left side as the rest filter inconspicuously into the common room. A comforting thought, Krem on his blind side, but the boy doesn't go for his dagger; instead, he puts his hand inside his shirt and pulls out a rolled paper.

The kid deserves some credit, his hand only shakes a little when he offers the letter to Bull — head and shoulders taller than him and easily three times as broad — with a quivery little bow. "Direct from the hand of Magister Maevaris Tilani of Qarinus, ser," he says, and even more to his credit he doesn't pause at all before the honorific.

"I see that," Bull says, sliding his fingernail under the wax seal that also bears her insignia. The paper smells faintly of roses and bergamot, and also the lingering scent of the courier's skin where he'd been keeping it close. "She waiting for a response?"

The kid shakes his head. "No, ser. Not in words, she said."

"Hmm," Bull hums, unfurling the letter.

 _To The Iron Bull_ , the letter begins, and damn if the article isn't a good start,

_Please forgive the brevity of this letter, but great necessity compels me to some haste. A mutual friend has been most complimentary of your skills, and of late we find ourselves in need of such skills. Our friend and I await you in my summer home outside Trevis, at your earliest convenience._

_Yours in discretion,_

_Maevaris Tilani_

Bull scans the letter for any sign it _isn't_ a cry for help, but what Maevaris doesn't say is as clear as day.

"Chief?" Krem prompts.

Bull grunts and folds the letter in fours before tucking it into his belt pouch. No sense thinking about it. No sense reading between the lines, looking for what may or may not be there. "It's Dorian," is all he has to say before Krem's eyes go hard and he's gesturing to the others to start packing up their shit. Bull looks the courier up and down. "You carrying travel papers for me and my boys in that shirt, too?"

"Writs of passage as well as directions, ser."

Bull nods. "Chargers, we're moving out."

***

They make good time from Nevarra proper, after meeting with their client to receive payment in full. Bull'd already decided the guy was an outright prick anyway, and was all too happy to let Krem press the flesh. Meanwhile, he absolutely, in no way, let his imagination fill in the blanks with increasingly grisly reasons Dorian or Maevaris would require his help desperately enough to risk actually bringing Bull across the border.

The Tilani summer home is about half a day's ride from Trevis on the main roads, and then another hour through sprawling vineyards and orchards, dotted every so often with groups of barefaced elves that watch the passing Chargers with solemn eyes and baskets bulging with grapes, olives, oranges. Foremen on horses watch them just as warily from under shaded boughs. Bull feels their gaze prickle up the back of his neck but no challenge comes calling after them, just the stares, which could be a miracle or just the magister running a tight ship. Either is fine by him.

The villa comes into view as the hot summer sun begins its final descent, and shortly after the magister herself is visible on the prominence overlooking the courtyard, shading her eyes and watching their dusty approach.

She descends the stair and greets them in the courtyard, the hem of her blue robes kicking up dust from the cobblestones as she hurries to embrace Bull with both hands raised to his face.

"The Iron Bull," she says, kissing him soundly on both cheeks. She smells wonderful, as light and airy as a breeze. "You are welcome in my home."

"Magister Tilani," Bull says, pulling back a little in surprise.

"Please, Maevaris. Mae," she corrects, bringing his hands to her lips, "I would not be so unfamiliar with you, _amatus amati mei_ , for I will owe you a great deal soon."

Bull can feel the frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. "Where’s Dorian?"

He knows that if Mae looks stricken, it’s only because she allowed herself to show that to him, and the sight of the pain flickering across her face is enough to make his hands clench hers, both as a warning and for comfort. If he has to hear bad news here, in the open, with the sun in his eyes... He’s too late, then, whatever it is.

"He is alive," she begins, and Bull sags a little in relief.

"That's a low bar here," Krem interjects from where he's passing the reins of his and Bull's horses to a stablehand.

Bull nods in agreement. "Where is he? Is he even here?"

Mae lets their hands drop between them. "He is in my care. Officially. The Iron Bull, you must know — I fought this, we both fought the ruling."

Something cold coils in Bull's stomach. "Tell me what's happened."

Mae takes a deep breath and nods. "Come with me," she says, "It will be easier to explain after you've seen him."

***

Mae's house is done up in blue and gold and black, as ornate and cake-like as an Orlesian villa. Instead of alcoves and heavy glass, though, many walls open outright on to gardens or shaded patios, white curtains fluttering in the hot breeze. She doesn't have nearly as many dour portraits of her ancestors as Bull expects in a noble home, which is somewhat of a relief.

What Mae doesn't have in portraits, though, she has in slaves. He's suddenly (and probably inappropriately) glad he left Skinner and Dalish outside with the horses; he doesn't need this to end in bloodshed and fire.

Mae catches him tensing up as they pass the fourth slave in as many minutes, and finally turns to him and puts a hand on his chest. Familiar. Bull's no stranger to people touching him, at least, and the easy way Mae shares her affection for him almost, _almost_ , puts him more at ease, if it weren't for the fact he can still feel the eyes of the slaves on him as they pass.

"I am sorry, for my complicity," she says, quietly, so only Bull can hear. He has to lean in, like a lover, though Mae is closer to his height than a lot of humans. "My late husband shared your distaste, as do I, after a fashion."

Bull watches out of the corner of his eye as the two slaves in question, young human women with armfuls of white linens, snap out of attention and find themselves with other things to do. "Just can't shake the habit?"

Mae closes her eyes, shaking her head sadly. "There are… appearances. I treat them as much like employees as I can, given the limitations of the system. The humans are _servus publicus_ , working out the terms of their agreement. The elves have been given the choice to work the estate or to leave with my blessing, with a stipend in consideration for their service. I can't…" Mae trails off and sighs. "We are trying, Iron Bull, but change is slow."

"And you can't change anything unless you play along," Bull concludes. He's not sure he agrees, but what does he know. He stopped playing along some time ago, when he chose the Chargers. 

"That's exactly it," Mae agrees, and if she notices he's not entirely on board, she has the decency not to bring it up. "I sleep at night knowing that in my heart, if not on paper, I've only purchased their labour. Their lives are their own."

Bull grunts noncommittally. Mae holds his gaze a while longer before laughing: a short, light sound. Her smile hasn't reached her eyes at all since they arrived. "Dorian acted much the same way, the first time he visited my estate upon his return. You're both so... Southern."

She pats his chest fondly and keeps walking. "He told me you'd been good for each other. I see why. In fact, I count on it."

"Yeah, about that," Bull begins, but then Mae is opening a door to what looks like something between a study and a sundeck, sun streaming through the slatted windows and filling the room with glimmering motes of dust. There's a person in the room Bull knows immediately to be Dorian, his head bent over a book. His hair is longer, tied back into a topknot at the crown, and a light dusting of stubble and a neat goatee ages him in an agreeable way. But even if Mae hadn't brought him to this room for the purpose of seeing Dorian he would still know, would feel it in his heart.

It's just… it's just such a relief to see him in the flesh, and alive, after so many days of worry he'd arrive too late and the worst had come to pass. Or that Dorian's trusted friend had turned out to be neither, and it'd all been a set-up, or—

"Iron Bull," Mae starts, and the warning in her tone gives him pause.

"Maevaris?" Dorian calls, without turning from his book, "And the Iron Bull, welcome."

The sound of his voice brings back that cold curdled feeling in Bull's stomach, crawling up his chest to his heart.

"Dorian," is all he can say, crossing the study in three steps to take him by the shoulder. Dorian doesn't even resist, doesn't cling to his reading to the last moment as he always did in Skyhold. He turns to Bull's unspoken request without a word, canting his head up to look him in the eye.

"Is something the matter, The Iron Bull?" Dorian asks.

Bull can't move. He can't speak. He only barely manages to convince his hand to brush his fingers over Dorian's forehead, over the triad of finger-sized dots burned into his skin there, glowing faintly with lyrium.

"Fuck," Bull whispers. "Dorian, no."

Dorian looks up at him, his face perfectly blank, perfectly placid. There's nothing behind his eyes, not even recognition. He just waits.

Mae clears her throat as she enters the room, going to Dorian's other side and putting her hand on his shoulder. "The Imperium doesn't put its own to Tranquility," she says, softly.

"Officially," Bull finds it necessary to clarify.

Mae nods, running her hand through Dorian's hair. "Unofficially, though… the Magisterium hands it down as punishment on those it considers no longer part of the Imperium. Seditionists, for example."

"'Abuse of magic' has so many convenient interpretations," Dorian says, like he’s echoing a memory.

"So he comes back from the South and, what, they decide he's turned traitor? It's only been a few months since we saw each other last. How much damage could he have done?"

Mae gestures helplessly with her free hand. "Change is slow. Dorian has never been a patient man."

"That is no longer correct, Maevaris," Dorian says. "I am quite patient, now."

Bull can see Mae's hand tighten in Dorian's hair before relaxing and smoothing out the strands again. "I know, _mellitus_ ," she says, stooping to kiss the top of his head. "You are a man of many virtues."

Bull swallows around the lump in his throat. "How long?" he asks.

"About five weeks," Mae says. "I wrote you as soon as our appeal was denied, but the courier was delayed — you're a difficult man to find, between clients. It was only luck that your Lord Cavish is a friend some many times removed, as well as the subject of rumor regarding a recent purchase of mercenary services."

Bull curses again, and falls to his knees beside Dorian. Dorian watches him with incurious eyes, doesn't tilt his head into Bull's palm when he lays it on his cheek. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there, _kadan_ , fuck, I'm so sorry…" he chokes. He strokes his thumb under Dorian's eye, willing Dorian to react.

"There was nothing to be done, The Iron Bull," Dorian says placidly. "The judgement of the Magisterium was absolute. Maevaris and I fought it quite violently, but to be completely honest, I find Tranquility to be somewhat of a relief."

Bull looks at Mae, whose face is a study in discomfort. He's sure his face is the same, but it's not just discomfort; it's almost as if he can feel his heart missing. He doesn't know who he mourns most, himself or Dorian. "That so?" he finally manages.

"They all say that. I can't… It can't be true," Mae says, wringing her hands. "He wouldn't want this. He fought so hard for the freedom to choose, to live his life…"

"Maevaris believes she can choose for me," Dorian adds. Bull wishes his tone was accusing, or hurt, but it's just flat. "If I had any desire to be returned to my emotional self, I would have already contacted Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast to arrange to be cured."

Mae hand on Dorian's shoulder tightens, and she looks to the Bull for support. "They already took away his free will. Deciding one more thing for him can't be worse."

"Objectively, it is the same," Dorian says, still as mild as a lamb. "I still have some power of choice, in the absence of more pressing instructions. I find my current state agreeable. Returning me to my emotional self may have side effects, such as increased fluctuations in mood and susceptibility to possession."

Bull takes a deep breath, focuses on the immediate problem: three people all drowning, taking each other down with them. He has to keep his head above water. Dorian can hate him for his selfishness later if he's wrong, and Bull would welcome it. "I agree with Maevaris, Dorian. You're coming with me. We're going to fix this, I swear."

Dorian doesn't respond, just looks at Bull. Bull searches his eyes for some contrary spark, but Dorian just waits.

"And if you decide, after you're cured, that you prefer Tranquility," Bull continues, "I’ll bring you back to the Magisterium myself."

Dorian does nod at that. "As you wish."

 

***

They stay the night, Bull bunking down with his Chargers in one of the suites of guest rooms. Mae is apologetic that her summer home doesn't have the room for seven in separate rooms, but it doesn't faze them in the least, not when real beds are involved. Bull takes a room with Rocky, Skinner and Dalish in another, and Krem, Stitches, and Grim all in a pile in the third. If his sleep is troubled, no one's the wiser.

Mae breaks their fast with bread and fragrant olive oil, big bowls of ripe grapes and figs, and bitter red tea that smells of spindleweed. There's plenty left by the time they're ready to hit the road, leftovers wrapped in scarves and secreted into belt pouches for the journey west to the Hunterhorn Mountains.

Bull pretends to be inspecting his tack while keeping an eye on Dorian, already on his horse. Mae's got him by the hands and is imparting words of some great import, though he doesn't get much other than the tone.

He watches Dorian reach down and wipe Mae's eye, which makes her shoulders stutter as she wraps her arms around his middle in a crushing hug. Bull turns away. It's good that Dorian had someone here to care for him when he couldn't. It is. It is good. He can’t hold it against Mae for failing to protect Dorian, any more than he holds it against himself.

They take the journey more leisurely this time, though the need to be out of Tevinter sits heavily on Bull's shoulders. They already draw enough attention, and moving double-time would only draw more.

They break for lunch well outside of Trevis, Skinner sharing a fistful of fine shelled nuts and Grim producing, from somewhere on his person, four overripe plums, both hauls undoubtedly plucked from merchants stalls as they passed through the city. It's a stupid risk but he knows them, takes the kindness for what it is — a small bit of worry to distract him from a much larger one — as he carefully slices a plum with his pocketknife and shares it with Dorian.

For his part, Dorian is a perfect travelling companion. He doesn't seem to show fatigue, doesn't complain, doesn't partake in the petty bickering that entertains the rest of his boys. He can even be compelled to song, if instructed, a fact which genuinely surprises Bull. Nothing flashy or creative, though his interpretation of the Charger's song is interesting for its more somber delivery. His singing voice is lower than Bull expected, and it's good to just close his eyes and pretend for a few hours.

Dorian sings until he says he cannot, and lapses into silence for the rest of the day. Rocky and Krem try to pick up a rousing call-and-answer, but it's just not the same.

They follow the road that runs along the banks of the Minanter until the sun sets, then they travel inland until true dark has almost fallen. Dalish archeries up a fire while the rest set up their tents, Dorian included, who picks up the routine of the camp with startling efficiency.

Dinner is a quiet affair; they didn't hunt on the road, so it's field rations and whatever's produced from remnants of that morning's breakfast, but that suits Bull just fine. He carves the green off of a piece of hard cheese and offers the rest to Dorian, who accepts it without even a grimace. Bull would be proud, under different circumstances.

No one's in the mood for song after the long day's ride, so when everyone starts to head to their tents Bull stands and kicks sand into the fire. "Get some sleep, Dorian," he says, because he's not sure Dorian won't sit at the banked fire for further instruction.

Dorian stands and brushes the dirt off of the seat of his leathers. "There is something I must bring up with you, The Iron Bull. Perhaps in private," he adds, after a beat.

Bull's mouth feels a little dry, but he nods and gestures to his tent. "That's about as private as it gets," he says. "After you."

He follows Dorian into his tent, tying the tent flaps closed behind them. It's not much privacy, not in camp, but it'll do unless Dorian wants to tramp out into the woods, and he gets the impression that doesn't jive with what this is about. He sits himself on his bedroll and gestures for Dorian to do the same.

"The Iron Bull, it has been some time since we have seen each other in person," Dorian starts. "I wonder if you have sought sexual companionship from others in the interim."

Bull finds himself staring at Dorian. "You're asking if I've fucked other people? Shit, Dorian, no," he says, resting his elbow on his knee. "Is that what you wanted to ask? I thought Tranquil didn't get jealous."

Dorian's brow furrows slightly. "No, The Iron Bull, I am no longer capable of jealousy. Rather, it is a matter of concern, for not only your health, but for your sense of well-being."

 _Don't forget me in the South,_ he'd said, before they split so Dorian could join the caravan heading into Tevinter proper. _Fuck anyone you need to keep sane, but know who holds your heart._ And he'd laughed and swung Dorian in his arms, and meant it when he said he didn't need anyone else.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it'd not even been two years. And every time Dorian had made a point of reminding him he was free to seek out others, and every time Bull knew it for what it was: _please tell me I am still worth it. Please tell me you are still happy to be mine._

Feels different this time.

"My well-being," Bull echoes, deadpan. "You think I need to get my rocks off, or… or what?"

"Whether or not you have had sexual partners other than myself is of no import to me," Dorian says, and it _doesn't_ sting to hear that, it doesn't, not even a little bit. "My concern was, rather, if you have been solely reliant on me to provide you with sexual companionship, then it has been some time since you have had release."

"I don't like where this is going," Bull warns, but Dorian gets to his knees before him and continues anyway.

"The nature of our monogamous relationship necessitates that I alone am available to provide you with such a release. You should be advised that I am willing to do so, now, if you wish it."

"Dorian—"

"You could fuck my mouth," Dorian offers, leaning in to put both hands on Bull's knees. "I retain all the skill I had before I became Tranquil."

Bull has a second to think _this isn't actually happening, is it_ , before Dorian continues. His voice is clinical, unjudgmental. "If you'd rather, we could engage in mutual oral sex. I assure you, my body is capable of orgasm. I have tested this thoroughly, as my body requires regular orgasm to function without distraction."

Dorian's hands are on the ties of his pants, working with efficiency. "I remember our sexual encounters often lasted several hours. If you require additional release, we could engage in anal intercourse. Without emotional or mental fatigue, my stamina has—"

" _Katoh_ ," Bull says, firmly, taking Dorian's hands and putting them back in his lap. "You remember _katoh_ , right?"

Dorian doesn't have any response at all. Doesn't look hurt, or confused. Asks no questions. No concern flickers across his face. He sits back on his feet and keeps his hands flat in his lap, fingers curled upwards. "I remember, The Iron Bull."

Bull breathes out a heavy sigh, letting his shoulders slump. "Good. That's good," he says, taking Dorian's hand. "I don't want to have sex with you right now. I don't consent to it. That's me doing that, for myself. Do you understand?"

"I do."

Bull squeezes Dorian's hand. "I'm sorry."

Dorian's face is blank, though he tips his head as if in thought. "There is no reason to be sorry, The Iron Bull. I do not desire to engage in sexual activity with you for my own sake."

He can't keep from wincing. "I know," Bull says, rubbing his face with his other hand. His eye feels like sandpaper. "That's… that's why…" He stops, knowing it'd just start another circular conversation about how his consent depends on Dorian's, which he gives only in response to Bull's desire, which depends on... and he doesn't have it in him. "Never mind," he finishes.

Dorian waits in silence for some long seconds, waiting for Bull to elaborate. "Am I dismissed?" he asks, when no explanation comes.

Bull feels a pang in his chest at not being able to simply take Dorian by the shoulders and vow that he could never, would never. "Yeah. Yeah, you should go," he says instead, eye closed. He feels Dorian extricate his hand from Bull's grip, hears the rustle of his robes as he stands and turns to the tent flap.

"Wait," Bull says, before he can stop himself. He opens his eye to see Dorian looking back at him, impassive, one hand already on the tent flap. Silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in from the crack in the fabric, Bull can almost believe it's his Dorian, stealing away as he used to before he began to stay the night in Bull's arms. Almost. His stomach churns, he hates himself, but he reaches for Dorian anyway. "Please."

Dorian doesn't move, awaiting further instruction.

Bull swallows, thickly. "Stay. With me. Just stay."

"I will require rest," Dorian says, dropping the tent flap.

Bull gestures to the bedroll. "I know," he sighs, "Sleep beside me tonight. Please."

Dorian nods in acquiescence, and begins to remove his clothes without further commentary. Bull averts his eye as he puts away his harness and brace, slides under the blanket still wearing his pants. Dorian follows, bared to his smallclothes, his robes and travelling leathers folded neatly beside his boots at the end of the bedroll.

Dorian's body fits just as well against his body as it always had, all the sweeter for the intervening months they'd been apart. Bull presses his nose to the short hairs at the back of Dorian's neck and breathes in, sandalwood and dust and the distinctive scent of Dorian himself. It's almost enough. Dorian does not wiggle or fight for position, lies still as if already asleep. His skin is cool.

He puts his hand on Dorian's hip and tells himself it is for protection. He kisses the back of Dorian's neck and tells himself it is for comfort. He pulls Dorian against his body and tells himself it is for warmth. He tells himself that one day, when Dorian is returned, he will remember the way that Bull treated him: not like a soulless automaton, but like a wounded lover in need of care.

That he won't hate Bull for needing him so fiercely.

Sleep is a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERY CONTENT NOTES: Dorian, who is Tranquil, aggressively offers himself to Bull for sexual purposes. Bull wants none of it. END SPOILERY CONTENT NOTES.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think you might need detailed content warnings, PLEASE skip to the endnotes for spoilers. It gets rough pretty much immediately.
> 
> The art at the end of the chapter is by me!

Qunari don't dream, a fact that has likely saved Bull a great many sleepless nights. When he wakes, though, groggy from a night of broken naps and self-recrimination, he wishes desperately that he could. Then he would have an explanation for the warmth around his dick, for the decadent sound of Dorian's mouth on him, for the way he'd already fisted his hand in Dorian's hair before realizing—

"Fuck! Dorian, no!" he shouts, grabbing Dorian by the shoulders and pushing him away, perhaps more roughly than he intended. Dorian's mouth makes an obscene, wet pop as Bull's dick flops free, shiny and rock-hard and red.

He breathes heavily, gathering the open slit of his pants around his shame. Dorian is a mess of arms and legs a few feet away, lips glistening, eyes empty, and Bull's stomach turns over. He wants to be sick. "What the fuck were you doing?"

Dorian wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, still regarding Bull with that eerie calm. "You grew erect in the night. Sustaining an erection without release is uncomfortable, particularly one of your size. I took your physical arousal as indication I would now be welcome to provide such a release."

Bull buries his face in his hands. "No, no, no…" he groans, " _Vashedan_ , Dorian, no. Fuck, _fuck_."

"I've caused you distress," Dorian observes.

"You think, Dorian?" Bull explodes, unable to contain the disgust bubbling up from his gut. Of all the shitty things he'd done for shitty people, all the murders and the thefts and the razing, he'd been proud to have never put rape on that list. Never put his dick anywhere it shouldn't have been. Made a point of it, and even though some sexual encounters had been ill-advised or had _ended_ as spectacular failures, he'd always… he'd always…

"Fuck," Bull groans again, his vocabulary whittled down to one word.

Dorian watches him in silence for some time. "Please do not feel—"

"I led you on," Bull interrupts, "I shouldn't have, I'm so fucking sorry. I don't want this."

"You don't want me," Dorian clarifies, without judgement.

"I don't. Not like this."

"Tranquility is not a total loss of self, The Iron Bull. Only the diminishing of selfish goals. I am still Dorian, I am still—" Dorian stops, appears to consider his words, "I am still willing to please you in the ways to which we have become accustomed. It does not give me pleasure, because that would imply that I seek it for selfish gain, which is impossible."

Bull can't do anything. He can barely breathe.

Dorian's hand is cool on his thigh. "Serving you was one of the greatest pleasures I remember from before I became Tranquil. Continuing to do so gives my life a purpose."

"No, no, no…" Bull says, into his hands.

"Please, The Iron Bull," Dorian continues, "If it helps, you should treat me as you would a tamassran—"

"Don't!" Bull roars, smacking Dorian's hand away. "Not now! Not ever, all right?! I don't care if I'm so hard I'm begging for it, Dorian, _don't_ say things like that to me, don't think—"

He pauses, realizing he's been yelling, and takes in the sight before him: Dorian, recoiling, nearly naked, his moustache soft, hair falling over his forehead in little tufts. Three bright white dots on his forehead. His face is empty. He should look scared. He doesn't. There's simply nothing there.

Bull heaves a great sigh. "It's not going to happen. I don't require your… your service."

Dorian's hand drops slowly. "I understand, The Iron Bull."

"Good, I—" is as far as Bull gets before there's suddenly significantly more activity in his tent than there should be: a hat, a blur of hands and feet, the glint of a knife. The air goes cold and acrid like the Fade.

Cole's lunging at Dorian almost before Bull can react — almost. He reaches out and grabs the spirit around the waist with one arm, wrestling him to the ground with him.

"The Iron Bull!" cries Cole, flailing with purpose. "He wants to die! Let me help!"

"Cole! What the _fuck_ ," Bull shouts, trying and failing to restrain Cole as he phases out of Bull's grip and lunges again. "Dorian, get out of here!"

Dorian does no such thing.

"Harm to help ease the hurt," Cole intones, dancing out of Bull's reach, "He wants to serve but you won't let him, The Iron Bull, he needs you now as he did before, but differently—"

The tent flap flies open as Krem and Skinner, early risers both, join the fray, and now even moreso the tent is too full: Krem wades right in and grabs Cole around the neck with one big arm; Skinner gets a hold of a wrist and an ankle and flips them both to the ground.

With a muffled _whump_ and a cry of alarm, Krem hits the ground alone. Cole's gone for a split second, phasing back into existence behind Dorian. Bull sees the flash of his dagger before Skinner's leaping at him, tackling him into the wall of the tent. The whole thing sways like a drunk as one of the tent poles snaps and one side collapses in a mess of patched oilsheet and tarpaulin, obscuring them both, and most of Dorian as well. The rest of the structure pitches and drops a few feet, tenting over Bull's horns.

"I lost him, chief!" Skinner yells from within the melee.

"The door locked. No, not this again, I got away, I got AWAY!" Cole's voice carries to Bull from somewhere; not from inside the fray but somewhere outside, or perhaps actually inside his head. "Father, why? You'll thank me someday. You'll thank me someday."

Bull curses and grabs Dorian by the ankle, the only part he can see, and drags him out from under the collapsing tent wall. Dorian goes pliantly, not resisting but not aiding him either. He tucks Dorian under his body, surrounding him.

"Screaming on the inside: The Iron Bull, _The Iron Bull_ ," Cole continues, and Bull can feel, from the jostling, Krem getting to his knees and lunging for Cole again. "The burden bearable, service paid in service, I need him, I _need_ him. The light is dim, soon gone, faster for the denial."

But Bull doesn't concern himself with that, only concerns himself with making sure his arms shield all of Dorian's soft, naked parts, that his head is tucked into the curve of Bull's neck, that his spine and kidneys and guts and heart are protected.

"A knife at night, rocks sewn into his robes; but I can do it now, he _wants_ it, The Iron Bull, I can make the hurt stop— oh!" Cole cuts off as Krem and Skinner both take him down; Bull can feel all three of them kicking somewhere around his feet.

Dorian is still and silent against him, breath hot in the alcove formed by neck, shoulder and horn. He seems absolutely unchanged by the struggle for his life going on around them, body loose and welcoming in all the wrong ways.

"Don't," Bull whispers, "Please, don't. I know you're not here right now, but don't… don't go."

Dorian's hands tighten on Bull's sides. "I am still here, The Iron Bull."

"Fuck," Bull says, again. His eye feels a little wet, and he just holds on, holds on to Dorian, and hopes.

All is still for a good long moment, just the rustling of what remains standing of the tent as it sways and fights gravity.

"I can't feel the hurt any more," Cole says, voice even and a little curious. "He needs a purpose, The Iron Bull, or he can't bear the peace."

"We got him, I think," says Krem, and Skinner grunts in response. Bull cracks open his eye and surveys the damage: all three of them tangled up like kids brawling in the nursery, Krem and Skinner each with an arm, Skinner's long legs wrapped around Cole in a python's grip.

Skinner rolls her eyes, "Yeah, until loverboy decides he wants to jump off a cliff again, fuckin' dramatic as shit."

Bull clears his throat. "Good job, you two. Uh, you can let him up. I think I've got it settled."

Dorian shifts beneath him, reminding Bull exactly how tightly he'd been holding him, how much of Dorian's lovely brown skin is naked against his. "Your weight is significant, The Iron Bull," he says, with utter calm.

Bull doesn't get embarrassed, as a rule. He doesn't, really. But it's a damn fine difference between embarrassment and… and whatever feeling Bull feels as he carefully lets go of Dorian, helps him to his knees. There's movement outside the tent, many hands helping to pull the pooling tent canvas into enough order to get all five of them out from underneath.

When they all emerge into the early morning sunlight, it's to the curious — and wary, Bull notes proudly — looks of the rest of the Chargers. Dalish is fully armored and has a belt of rabbits slung over her shoulder, presumably from checking the overnight traps, but the rest are in differing stages of undress. And with the exception of Rocky, who knows better than to walk around camp armed, they're all weapons-ready.

Bull lifts a hand in peace, and the tension ebbs out of his boys significantly. "It's all right. It's taken care of," he says. "It's just… Cole."

Eyes turn to the spirit boy, still held up between Krem and Skinner. "The well was full. It's empty now, but even though the water's gone, the well remains," Cole says, softly.

Skinner makes a disgusted noise and drops Cole's arm. Krem gamely holds on a few more seconds before realizing the futility of trying to physically restrain a spirit.

"Yeah, kid," Bull says, slowly. "We're going to, uh, fill up the well. Betting Cassandra knows how. Unless you can do something about it."

Cole's big blue eyes are as empty as Dorian's, but far deeper. "The Inquisitor couldn't make me real, but he couldn't make me not, either. I can help, but not like this. I can't reach across from where I already am."

Skinner curses and kicks a rock into the forest.

"The ritual to reverse Tranquility requires a great deal of lyrium, as well," Dorian adds.

Bull shoots Dalish a look, and she puts her hands up. "Don't look at me, I only carry enough lyrium potions for emergencies. Other people's emergencies."

The camp is awkwardly silent for a few moments before Krem clears his throat. "Chief, why don't you and Dorian take a walk. Let us clean this up."

"I ran across a brook earlier," Dalish adds.

Bull looks at his boys, but sees nothing but empathy in their faces. "Yeah, all right," he says, scratching his chest for lack of anything else to do. "There and back."

It's not until they're out of earshot of the camp that Bull can feel himself sag. It feels like it's all he can do to get one hand on a tree before he goes down, his heart thudding in his chest.

"The Iron Bull," Dorian asks. "Are you well?"

"Yeah," Bull manages, rubbing his thumb into his eye. "I'm fuckin' fine."

"If I can be of service—" Dorian starts, but Bull cuts him off with a sharp wave.

"No bullshit. We're done with that."

Dorian's response is slow in coming. "I only meant, if I could assist you in some way, it would be…" he pauses, considering. "It would be my pleasure."

His hand on Bull's bicep isn't tentative, as one might think it should be, but it's calming nonetheless. "Can you allow me to continue to serve you?"

 _Fuck, you're so good_ , he'd told Dorian, too many times to count. He can remember the first time Dorian hissed back, _fuck, yes, I want to be good for you_ and he'd meant it, and he'd been so surprised Bull could tell he'd nearly cried. _I don't want anyone else, Bull, fuck, just you, I just want to be good for you_.

Bull frowns, scrubs his hand over his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I can. If you need it. No sex, though. No… release."

Dorian nods, clearly parsing this information. "I cannot provide the emotional support I once provided you. Though, you will find I am a better listener than before."

"Heh, that's something," Bull chuckles, then stops, feeling immediately guilty.

Dorian's smile is fixed, no, a memory of a smile. "It is good that you can joke with me, The Iron Bull. I have no desire to cause you further distress. I hope you find that I have retained many of my positive qualities, and have gained many more."

This time, Bull does laugh, and the pang is a little lesser. Not by much, but it helps. "They forgot to give you modesty."

Dorian pauses. "The Tranquil have no need for modesty, as we do not feel shame."

Bull scratches his chest, absently. "Never mind. It was a bad joke anyway. You would have liked it, though. Would have said something like—"

"—why would I deny the world the pleasure of my brilliance?" Dorian finishes, tilting his head with another ghastly smile. "I remember. I do not understand why I would have made the joke, but I remember."

They walk in companionable silence for a while. Well, at least, on Bull's end the silence is companionable. To Dorian, it's probably just because Bull doesn't give him anything more to go on. Within a few minutes, they stumble across the brook, and Dorian immediately begins stripping off his clothing.

"No modesty, huh?" Bull asks.

Dorian pauses in taking off his smalls, turns to the Bull. He's almost completely naked, in all the ways that count, a thousand leagues of smooth bronze skin and a few more of dark, thick hair for flavour. It makes Bull's heart hurt to avert his gaze yet again, but he knows he must. If not out of respect for Dorian, who would say he requires none, then to quiet the greater pain he feels when he looks at him.

"None at all," Dorian replies, and continues taking off his smalls. He wades into the water and Bull follows him a few minutes later.

The stream only comes up to their knees, and is as cold as ice in the shade. Bull cups handfuls of water over his body, rinses his mouth, watches Dorian do the same without complaint. If he feels cold at all, it is only in a tremble that doesn't seem to bother him in the least.

Bull clears his throat. "Dorian," he says, and the man stills in his ablutions. "What Cole said before. You don't want to die, do you?"

Dorian drops his hands and turns to face the Bull, unabashed. "It is impossible for me to want things."

"He wouldn't have come if he didn't hear it."

Dorian pauses, thinking on his words. "All beings require a purpose, The Iron Bull. In the absence of emotional stimulus or desire, Tranquil require a purpose more than anyone else. Without purpose, my continued existence is redundant. I do not desire death, but I would seek it—"

"Stop. That's enough," Bull orders, and Dorian's mouth slams shut. He almost feels guilty. He wades through the stream and takes Dorian in his arms, holds him as tight as he dares. "I need you to hold on, _kadan_. I need you to still be there when I come get you."

Dorian doesn't say anything, and Bull curses under his breath. "I need you. So just hold on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERY CONTENT NOTES: Bull wakes to find Dorian performing oral sex on him, and is upset -- primarily with himself, likening it to _him_ forcing himself on Dorian. Later, Cole brings to light Dorian's suppressed suicidal ideation. At the end, Bull and Dorian discuss Dorian's desire, or lack thereof, to die. END SPOILERY CONTENT NOTES.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally wrote a whole additional chapter out of the journey and arrival scenes, because I love Cassandra and Bull being supportive of each other. The pain will be extended a little longer, but you don't mind, right?
> 
> Content warnings: there is no sexual content in this chapter involving Dorian in his Tranquil state. He is, however, still a Tranquil, and Bull is still coming to terms with that, so the situation may still be triggering for some.

The rest of the journey west through Nevarra towards the Hunterhorn Mountains is calm, the rolling vineyards and orchards of southern Tevinter slowly giving way to craggy plains as far as the eye can see. Slowly, over the matter of about a week and a half, the grass gives way to arid scrubland, the ground warping up around them into dry, ugly foothills. They pass few people, mostly merchant caravans tied down tight against the dusty wind. When they can, they break bread at a farmhouse or ranch, but for the most part the land remembers the ancient Blight and the people keep to themselves, unwilling to take the chance on Bull's motley crew.

They only run into bandits once, which at the very least breaks up the monotony. He's glad they decided to make this leg of the journey together with the Chargers — it would have been a good fight two years ago, him and Dorian together, but without his magic it may have been a different story. Other than that, it's bleak travel for days that seem to stretch forever.

The Bull's Chargers are seasoned hands at overland travel, seemingly able to bullshit and bicker for days on end without actually fracturing, but two weeks is a long time for anyone, particularly with Dorian in their midst.

It's not that Dorian is a poor travelling companion. Like the first day, he remains unfailingly polite and calm, ready to help with menial labour or a song. He even cooks, after a fashion, and can tend fire or keep watch. He can't hunt for shit, but it's not like there's much to hunt save reptiles and a few herds of wary mountain goats. No, it's just… Dorian is welcome among the Chargers, but it's hard to ignore the subtle ways he can't help but get under everyone's skin. He's a reminder, and no one joins a mercenary band and finds they need more reminders about how shitty the world is.

Cole pops in and out of camp occasionally, like a moth drawn to the light. Or lack of light, as the case may be, because after the confrontation in the camp outside Trevis, Cole provides no more hidden knowledge about the inner workings of Dorian's mind. Dorian seems to go somewhere else mentally during the day, content to simply provide support for the camp and do as he's asked.

To Bull's great relief, he seems to drop the 'sexual release' clause of his service to Bull entirely from his lexicon, and after a few nights it begins to feel natural to share his tent again with him in the evenings. True to his word, Dorian is a good listener. 

And it's… it's nice, in a way, to share space with Dorian. It's not easy, and it's certainly not sexual, but he listens to Dorian recount the last few months in Tevinter leading up to his trial, and Dorian listens to Bull recount the last few jobs he'd done with the Chargers, and they talk about patterns in the great belt of stars visible in the pure darkness above the Nevarran plains, and the most efficient ways to travel between places to be able to take on more jobs, and the relative benefits of speed versus strength in a fight, and the season's colours in Orlais, and…

It's not normal.

It's not.

But it gets easier. Bull finds himself reaching for Dorian more often, only to stop at the last moment. He never forgets; Dorian's flat affect makes forgetting an impossibility, but sometimes he _wants_ to forget, and for a few seconds finds himself permitting himself to do so. Never again does he touch Dorian in a way that might confuse their peace treaty. They're his feelings. It's his burden, not Dorian's.

He doesn't think about Dorian's mouth on him. And he doesn't think about the light in Dorian's eyes, the soft unspoken affection of Dorian tucked against his side, the way his beautiful mouth used to fall open when Bull took him apart with his fingers.

He doesn't think about the words he could have been saying instead of just calling him _kadan_.

He doesn't think, as much as he can.

***

Coming into Perendale after two weeks solid riding and camping is a palpable relief. They stay a few days, enjoying the decadence of comfortable beds and warm water for bathing. The people of Perendale still have a love of Orlesian coin, and in short order their little caravan is restocked.

Bull and Krem clasp hands under the gaudiest fuckin' statue of lions hunting a dragon Bull has ever seen, before Bull groans and pulls him into a one-armed hug.

"Take care of my boys," he grumbles, ruffling Krem's hair.

"Take care of yours, chief," is Krem's answer.

Bull shoots a glance at Dorian, who is methodically repacking his bags for their ascent into the Hunterhorns. He has his cloak drawn tight around him, low over his forehead to obscure the mark of Tranquility. "Yeah," Bull says, feeling that jerking sensation of falling when Dorian looks up to meet his eye. "I'll try."

Krem pats his shoulder; an absurd gesture because he has to reach almost over his head to do it, but Bull appreciates the sentiment. They'd head down to Val Royeaux on the main roads, picking up contracts along the way if they could. He knows he's leaving the Chargers in good hands — more and more these past few months, while Bull's heart was stirring up trouble in Tevinter and his mind seemed to be with it, Krem's hands had been more reliable than most. It's a complicated emotion, seeing himself start to detach from his boys and watching Krem grow into his own, but it's not one he has time for, now.

At any rate, he'd meet them in Val Royeaux when this was all over. What happens then, happens then.

He embraces each of his boys as they file through the gates, checking their packs for loose buckles like a good mother hen. When all he can see are their backs as they take the south road into Orlais, he and Dorian turn north.

***

Seekers Hold is the kind of place that looks like it could have been massive once, but the years have taken their toll on it. The main fortress is carved from the same grey-brown stone of the mountain, much of it crumbling and shrouded by scaffolding and tarping. Newer wooden structures are stacked at least three deep outside its walls, clinging to it like children to a mother's skirts. It's perched halfway up a mountain, with sheer rock face on two sides, dropping into a deep valley carved by a mean-looking river. They first see the fortress early in the morning, and it takes the better part of the day to make the final ascent. The approach is steep and switchbacked, and they have to stop often to rest their horses as the air gets thin and cold.

They don't even make it within yelling distance of the main gate before the iron lattice opens and a rider on a dappled grey warhorse surges forward to greet them.

Bull is considering drawing steel on the rider for all of about four seconds before she comes close enough to see the smile on her face. When they lock eyes she stands in the saddle and lets out a whoop of recognition, her laughter echoing off the bare cliffs.

"Iron Bull," Cassandra greets him warmly, pulling her horse alongside his so they can clasp forearms. They study each other's faces for a few seconds — _how have you been, brother? how was the road?_ — before breaking into smiles again like fools.

Bull grabs her by the neck with his free hand and tilts his forehead to rest it against hers, chuckling. For the first time in a long time, he soaks in the easy companionship of a peer — not one of his boys, not a client, not the empty vessel of the man he misses so much. "Seeker fuckin' Pentaghast," he growls, and the put-out noise Cass makes in the back of her throat is worth it.

"Cole dropped in at breakfast to tell me you'd arrive today. Literally, dropped in, directly onto the table," she says, and her clipped, wry accent is a joy he hadn't known was missing from his life. Two years had been too fuckin' long.

"Did he tell you?" Bull asks, gesturing with his horn over his shoulder to where Dorian sat silently on his horse, still wrapped tightly against the cold.

Cass's eyes flit to Dorian, her smile taking on a sadness in the corners. "In his way," she says, then dismounts smoothly and goes to Dorian. She holds out her hands and he puts his in hers, placidly. "Oh, Dorian…" she sighs, and reaches up to touch the brand where it peeks out from under his cowl. "I am so sorry. This should never have happened."

"Neither you, your Seekers, nor the Southern Templars are to blame for my condition," Dorian says. "The punishment was justly handed down from the Magisterium, for a fault that was entirely my own."

Cass looks over her shoulder at Bull, who shrugs. "That does not sound like our Dorian at all," she says.

"Tell me about it," Bull grouses, rolling his shoulders.

Cass turns back to Dorian, clasps his hands in hers again. "Regardless, you are welcome, my friend."

"Your hospitality will be appreciated," Dorian replies, inclining his head with a small smile. He'd gotten better at faking it the past two weeks, but it still sends a chill down Bull's spine.

Evidently Cassandra feels the same way about it, because Bull can see her shoulders tense up with sigh she doesn't air. She pats Dorian on the knee before turning back and gracefully mounting her horse. "Come," she says, spurring it into a neat turn, "It's almost the dinner bell, and I want to hear everything good about life outside of these Maker-taken mountains."

Bull pulls his horse into step beside her, letting Dorian follow behind on the narrow path at his own pace. "Thanks, Seeker," he says, in an undertone.

Cass just shrugs, her eyes on the fortress — _her_ fortress, Bull reminds himself — ahead. "You've just missed the Inquisitor," she says, at a normal volume. "Bad timing. He stayed nearly two months this time."

"Shit, really?" Bull says, taking the hook for what it is. "I haven't seen the Boss for—"

"Nearly the same two years since you've seen me," she cuts in, but the hurt is tempered with a chiding smile.

"We've all been busy," Bull mutters, studying the newer buildings as they move through them to the gates. Good construction, thick walls. Built to last a while. He turns an eye to Cass to study her, too. The years haven't seen her change at all, save that she's apparently now wearing her braid down her front, like a proper dragon hunter. She sits comfortably in her saddle, and for good reason: as they pass people on the road they practically throw down what they're doing to salute her, fist to chest, not as a tyrant but as a woman seemingly walked right out of legend. She is every inch the natural-born leader she claimed she could never be, and it sits well on her.

Cass catches him looking, and reaches out to strike him in the arm. "He misses you a great deal."

"Yeah," Bull says, looking up at the construction of the gate as they pass underneath. "Sure he tells you all about that when he's here."

Cass hums, a pretty bit of colour creeping into her cheeks. "It comes up."

He has to stifle his laugh. That one's too easy.

***

Dinner is a simple affair, served in a style probably unintentionally reminiscent of the mess halls of Par Vollen. Cass takes most of her meals in her office, as she tells them over a mug of dark Anderfels lager, but dinner is communal. The fare is provincial but satisfying: thick lamb stew with sticky dumplings, buttered bread, great hunks of cheese with a salted brown rind, and cask after cask of more of the same lager. No wonder her people are in love with her, he notes with no small amount of pride. Everyone and everything here bears the mark of her guiding hand: strong, forthright, no bullshit.

She, Bull, and Dorian hold court in the middle of one of the long tables and swap stories for hours, Dorian occasionally making a small factual clarification. They're joined intermittently by others of Cass's fledgling senior Seeker cadre, and if any are startled by Dorian, few show it. Most of them are senior enough to remember a time when Seeker initiates like Cassandra were made Tranquil themselves, though they may not have _known_ it at the time. It affords him a bit of empathy, at least among those for whom that part of their past is common knowledge.

Dorian, of course, isn't bothered in the least by those that have less tact. The 'punished by the Magisterium' line goes over exceedingly well in the South, and among the Seekers it's no different. People are hungry for details about the evils of Tevinter, and given that Dorian is not compelled to lie in his current state, his truths are more than enough material to sate their superiority complexes.

It's well and true dark by the time either Bull or Cassandra feel inclined to leave the table, and Dorian doesn't seem to fatigue at all. He does, however, have more sense than either of them as to the limits of his body, so when the hall is closer to empty than it was to full he stands, looking to Cass for guidance.

"I require rest," he says, inclining his head slightly. "Do either of you anticipate needing my assistance this night?"

Bull suppresses a shudder, and Cass manages even less so. "No, Dorian," she says, then drains her lager and stands. She waves over a woman with close-cut, greying hair and military-perfect dress uniform. "The seneschal will take you to the guest rooms. Ah, unless—" she stammers, her eyes darting to Bull.

Bull clears his throat. "Yeah, two rooms."

Cass's eyes crinkle with sympathy, but she nods and directs the seneschal to take Dorian to the guest rooms regardless. When they've left, she turns back to Bull. "A shame, my friend. I am sorry."

Bull looks down at the remnants of dinner, long cold. "It's for the best," he says, voice dry. He doesn't want to tell her about his moment of weakness, how it led somewhere he knows he can't return.

Cass knows him, though. Fought beside him for years. Watched the push and pull of his and Dorian's relationship, as he watched hers with the Inquisitor. Even if she doesn't know what happened, even if she's not as intuitive as Bull, she knows him. She lays a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Walk with me."

***

Seekers Hold reminds him of Skyhold in the early days. Their way across the battlements is obfuscated by scaffolding and huge gaps in the walls, but it's obvious Cass knows the place like the back of her shield, and Bull is happy to follow. A bitter wind whips up from the crevasse, which does little to bother Bull, but carries their words far away into the darkness. They walk linked at the elbow, sharing the burden of the wind, the cold, the dark, and the drink.

"I feel as if I must apologize again," Cass says, leaning into Bull.

He squeezes her arm against his. "You control the weather now? Shit," he says, deliberately.

"No!" Cass exclaims, and then, quieter: "I did not know you and Dorian had…" She gestures with her free hand. "I did not know your relationship had changed. I would have been more tactful."

He stops a moment, inclines his head to look at her. Her braid is free of her cloak, whipping against them both, so he turns to face her and gently starts wrapping it around her head. "It's not like that. It's just complicated now."

"Because of his… condition?" Cass asks, tilting her head to help him work.

"Mmmn," Bull grunts. "He needs me to keep it together. I can do that. For him."

Cass, ever a romantic, looks up at him with wide eyes as he uses one of her hairpins to fix the braid around her head. He counts on her to read between the lines, to see… to see what he can't admit to himself. She makes a soft noise of surprise and leans into him, wraps her arms around his chest. "Oh, Bull… I am sorry." she says, impossibly fond. Her body is warm, responsive, alive, strong under his hands. He feels a surge of something he hasn't felt in a long time.

_Fuck anyone you need to stay sane._

Bull shakes his head. The time when he and Cass could have sought a bit of comfort in each other was long past. _Long_ past.

Cass pulls away after a minute. Her eyes look wet, but in the wind it's harder to ascribe it a cause. They start walking again, eventually making their way to where a bit of the fortress provides some reprieve from the wind, and they stop to warm their hands on a brazier.

"I worry," Cass starts, then bites her lip. "Many Tranquil who've submitted to the ritual are forever changed by their experience. They report incredible variations in mood, a fracturing of previous relationships, inability to cope with the memory of their Tranquility."

Bull grunts, waits for Cass to continue.

Cass sighs. "I have wondered if it is truly mercy to make the choice on their behalf, or selfishness," she says, quietly. "The dead cannot return to the living. To make it so creates abominations. But the desire to see our loved ones returned to us is…" Cass takes a deep breath, her gaze going far away. "The urge can overwhelm all sense."

"Dorian's not dead."

"The part of him that loves you is," Cass says, not unkindly. "As is the part of him that you loved in return. Perhaps forever."

Bull clears his throat.

"I am proud to count Dorian among my friends. I have few," Cass says. "Not so many that there are some to spare. But the part of Dorian that was my friend may truly be gone, and in the attempt to get it back, I may create something horrible. This is the choice you ask me to make."

"I'm making this choice," Bull says. "For him."

"Why does Dorian not make this choice for himself?"

Bull stops and raises his eyebrow at Cassandra. It's unlike her to bait him. "Have you seen him? He can't make the decision for himself."

Cass slams the trap shut. "We make decisions on behalf of children and animals. Do you see him as either?"

"Of course not," Bull growls. "I'm only doing what he would want me to do."

"What we assume he would have wanted," she corrects. "Perhaps, if faced with the prospect of mental affliction for the rest of his days, he would choose Tranquility."

"He didn't choose Tranquility in the first place," Bull grits out.

"No," Cass agrees, "It was thrust upon him, as it is with most. But that decision has already been made, and we must do our best with the options available. The rate of recidivism for people who have been cured of Tranquility is nearly three out of twenty. The number of people who quietly suffer instead of resubmitting to Tranquility is unknowable. Are you prepared for that?"

Bull crosses his arms. "What would you have chosen?"

The look Cass gives him is shocked, with a hint of betrayal. "The choice was never before me. It was a given that I would undergo the ritual... and I was never told I was Tranquil. I knew nothing else."

Bull levels his gaze at Cassandra and waits.

"Our situations are entirely different," she says, softly.

"Not from where I'm standing."

Cass holds his gaze for a while, the challenge softening by increments. She sighs and tucks the errant end of her braid behind her ear. "We will, of course, perform the ritual should you choose to do so. That is what we are sworn to do. I only ask that you are absolutely certain, my friend."

Bull offers her his arm, which she takes with a look of relief. "I have to be."

***

He walks Cassandra to her quarters — a slightly archaic ritual, considering she knows this place far better than he could, but he enjoys her company as well as the chance to get the lay of the fortress.

He's halfway up the stairs to the guest quarters when the sound of voices floating down the stairwell gives him reason to pause.

"The Iron Bull believes I will be happy, should the ritual work and I am returned to my emotional self."

Dorian. Dorian's voice. Bull swallows a lump of guilt that forms in his throat and carefully, quietly climbs the stairs to just before the landing.

"He wonders if he makes the right choice. You share the burden but he carries the weight. Would you?"

Cole. The cadence is unmistakeable.

Dorian's voice is soft, but still clinical. "I do not have the capacity to form an opinion on the choices others make on my behalf. They are either logical decisions or they are not. As the matter of my Tranquility is an emotional matter, there is no logical decision beyond increasing my contribution to the world. To The Iron Bull, my emotional presence is of greater import than my productivity, and so his decision falls within the bounds of rationality. I will comply."

Cole makes a soft noise in his throat. "Spirit and spiritless, bound to the will of the spirited. The open door, fresh air like the wings of birds on Summerday, sun on your face. He is warring, watchful, waiting. He wants to know." 

Bull silently retreats a few steps and takes them again much louder the second time, letting his brace clang against the stone. By the time he's at the landing, Cole is gone, leaving Dorian silhouetted against a great glass window.

Dorian is outlined in blue by the moonlight as he looks over his shoulder at Bull. Only the brand stands out, glowing faintly and throwing the rest of his face into deep shadow. His emotionless eyes are shrouded in the dark, and for the first time in a long time, Bull finds he can look at him in his terrible beauty.

Dorian gestures to the deep window ledge beside him. "Will you join me, The Iron Bull?"

He doesn't want to. He wars with that the whole time his feet take him to the window and deposit him there, facing Dorian. The cold seeps into him as he leans his back against the glass.

"You were limping," Dorian notes, and Bull realizes that, yeah, now that he's sitting down, his knee and ankle are killing him from the journey, the extended dinner hour, and the walk around the battlements. Dorian drops to his knees before Bull and extends his hands, stopping just short of touching him. "Would you allow me to try to relieve some of the strain? I have no access to magic, but the basic principle remains the same."

Dorian waits patiently, not touching him, as Bull stares down at him and tries to make sense of the complicated swell of emotion in his chest.

 _It's only magic_ , Dorian had scoffed the first time he'd offered to use a rune of heat to soothe the knotted snarl of muscles of his left leg. The resulting massage had been good enough to make Bull reconsider the existence of a divine god, and Dorian using those same delicate and faintly warm fingers to open him up afterwards had almost, _almost_ been enough to make him swear by one.

 _Serving you was one of the greatest pleasures—_ is the memory that threatens to overwrite that one.

Bull blinks away both memories and gently pulls his knee away from Dorian. "No thanks, big guy. I'll be fine."

Dorian sits back on his feet and puts his hands in his lap, looking up at Bull with no expression. "You have not sought my touch for some time, The Iron Bull."

Bull takes in a deep breath and blows it all out slowly, groaning a little as he rubs his own knee. It's not the same at all. "Yeah. It doesn't feel right, me touching you."

"In this instance, it was I who offered to touch you."

"You're not…" Bull starts, that stops to consider his words. "You can't consent, Dorian. It's the same, no matter who starts what. I have to…" He grunts, shakes his head. "I am responsible for what I let you do to me."

"I did not intend to touch you in a sexual manner," Dorian says, rising to his feet. In anyone else, Bull would expect to hear the hurt in their voice. In Dorian, it's just a statement of fact. "I have no wish to cause you discomfort."

"Yeah," Bull grunts. "So you've said."

"Would it provide you with comfort if were I to touch you in a non-sexual manner?"

 _What do_ you _need, amatus,_ Dorian had asked him once, long after the _as long as you're happy, I'm happy_ conversation they'd had early on in their relationship, as it was in those days. Bull couldn't have put it into words — he'd never been given the words to do so, not under the Qun, not in any number of tumbles with people who wanted him for specific reasons he was happy to fulfill. He knows now, though. He needs _Dorian_ : in his bed, falling apart in his hands, nestled against his heart, with every breath, until the end of his days.

Bull swallows thickly, eye moving from Dorian's open face to his hands, curled lightly at his sides.

Dorian just waits.

"I… don't know," Bull says, slowly.

Dorian sits beside Bull on the window ledge, close enough that Bull thinks he can feel the warmth radiating off of him. "Would you allow me to try?" he asks.

He wants to say no. He doesn't. He says the other thing.

Dorian shifts his body so he's nearly sideways on the deep ledge, and leans in so his head and shoulders lie on Bull's chest. Bull reclines a little until they're in some approximation of an embrace.

"Does this provide you comfort?" Dorian asks.

Bull rubs his fingertips over the shorn sides of Dorian's head. "Yeah," he says, willing it into more truth than it is. "A little."

He imagines Dorian has no need to respond, because they sit in peaceful quiet for a few minutes with the crackling of the fires in the wall sconces to keep them company. The fortress is silent, like the space between a breath.

"Dorian," Bull says, finally. He almost doesn't want to ask. "Are you… happy, the way you are?"

"I no longer feel happiness," Dorian says. His lips brush against Bull's skin when he speaks. "But I do not feel unhappiness. I am content. That is more than can be said for my life before I became Tranquil."

Bull feels that like an arrow to the chest. "You were unhappy, before? With me?"

"One can be unhappy and happy at the same time. This contradiction was a great source of emotional distress."

 _I miss you, amatus_ , came the letters, nearly monthly whenever the Chargers were in one place long enough.

 _I miss you_ , thinks Bull, the ferocity of the emotion thick in his blood. _I don't know what to do without my heart_.

He pulls Dorian closer to his chest.

_As long as you are happy, I am happy._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no content warnings for this chapter. Beta'd by [twevicity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rii).

_As long as you are happy, I am happy._

The thought carries Bull through the night and right on to morning, until the sunrise breaks the lip of the mountains and wakes him with a jolt. Dorian's body, slack with sleep, is a heavy warmth on his chest. Bull sits with the sun in his eye and tries not to move, tries not to breathe too deeply even though his heart is hammering guiltily against his ribs.

The sun rises early this time of year, but he already can hear the sound of breakfast being served in the mess hall down the stairwell. Early risers, Seekers and initiates. Undoubtedly also Cassandra's doing. This corridor looks largely unused save for guests, but Bull still feels the hot flame of guilt kindle in his gut. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but—

He can't help but brush an errant lock of hair away from Dorian's forehead, consequently baring the marks of Tranquility. He can't ascribe affection to Dorian's actions, not right now, not the way he is, but an impossible fondness blooms in his chest anyway. It's nice, just to… for all it's something he knows he should forbid himself… it's nice, is all.

At Bull's touch Dorian goes from being asleep to being awake in the space of a heartbeat, with an unnatural stillness. Bull can feel his breathing change, the minute shifting of muscles that betray awareness, but that's it. It would be impressive, in another context. Dorian rights himself, face charmingly sweat-stuck to to Bull's chest, and uses the sleeve of his robe to wipe away a little smear of drool on Bull's chest without a trace of embarrassment.

Still warm from sleep and inclined to flights of affection, Bull reaches out to rub a bit of sleep from the inside corner of Dorian's eye. Except for the blue glow of the lyrium brand, he can almost believe…but he doesn't, not for an instant, even though Dorian's eyes are soft and unfocused, even though his body is pressed against Bull's still, even if waking together was something they'd done a hundred times before.

No, not even for an instant.

It's easier to bear, this particular iteration of that urge. Feels less like he needs to tamp it down. It'll all be different after today, regardless. He can allow himself to hope, and take the happiness he can get. It doesn't have to hurt today.

"Good morning, The Iron Bull," Dorian says, his voice thick with sleep.

Bull clears his throat. "Good morning, Dorian."

Dorian watches him intently, awaiting further interaction, but when none comes he extricates himself from Bull's embrace and stands. His hair is loose from the bun, moustache in disarray, travelling robes twisted around his body, and Bull feels a pang of memory for the Dorian he'll see again soon.

"I require breakfast," Dorian says, righting his cloak around himself.

"Yeah, me too," Bull says, leaning up and rubbing his neck. Too old to be sleeping in cold windowsills; his back aches and his skin tingles as feeling returns to pinched nerves. "Big day."

Dorian inclines his head, but says nothing.

"Cassandra says the Seekers will do the ritual," Bull says, prompting again to get any sort of reaction from Dorian. He should have asked last night, with Dorian's conversation with Cole fresh in his mind. "What do you think about that?"

"I will comply," is Dorian's answer, again.

Bull sighs and swings his legs off the sill. He gets to his feet slowly, bracing himself on the wall as strength returns to his lower body. The position didn't do his knee any favours either. "Yeah, but what do you _think_ about it?"

Dorian seems to consider this for a moment. "I think that it is a logical choice. I have no reason to believe the possible side effects of reversing the Rite will be any more of a hindrance to my purpose than being Tranquil already is."

"Your purpose — what, serving me, still?" Bull asks, leaning against the wall to check the tightness of his brace. "Because you already know what I think about that."

"Magister Tilani seemed to wish for me to return to Tevinter to help continue her work in reforming Tevinter, should the Rite prove a failure."

"Ah," Bull says. "That's what she was telling you, in the courtyard."

"Yes," Dorian says, simply.

"That's not how it's gonna go," Bull grumbles, feeling a tug in his chest at not only the possibility of failure, but the possibility of Dorian going somewhere he couldn't follow, yet again.

"Magister Tilani prefers to account for all possibilities," Dorian says, turning to go down the stairs. "It is an admirable trait."

Bull can't argue with that, even if he wants to.

***

Breakfast is great vats of chewy oatmeal with honey and bits of dried apple. There's more cheese and more bread, still so warm from the morning's baking that the butter melts into it. And, beautifully, the hold seems to trade with Antiva, because there's carafes of steaming coffee on each table. It's more than enough to be thankful for — and Bull is, greatly — even though the day weighs heavily on his shoulders.

Cassandra joins them for breakfast, a weary tightness around her eyes belying the late night and the drink. She looks scrubbed and a little damp around the edges, already bathed. Bull is sure she's already done at least one round of prayers today, if her routine at Skyhold still held true.

"Seeker," Bull greets her when she sits at the table, a steaming bowl of oatmeal in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other, already near empty. He pours milk from the carafe onto her oatmeal and she smiles faintly at him, which serves to deepen her worry lines.

"Good morning, Bull, Dorian," she greets, with a nod at Dorian. "You know, our beds are quite comfortable."

Bull makes himself busy buttering a hunk of bread.

Cassandra laughs, more of a snort really, as she digs into her breakfast. "People tell me things, here."

Bull's eye darts to Dorian, placidly spooning oatmeal into his mouth with a distant look on his face. He remembers a time when anyone drawing attention drawn to their relationship would have seen Dorian's fiercely antagonistic streak. But there's nothing now, which is even worse.

He doesn't have a witty rejoinder for Cassandra, so he just shrugs and pours himself another mug of coffee. The seneschal brings by papers for Cass to sign, which she does nearly one-handed, but otherwise they're undisturbed.

"How long will you be staying with us, Bull?" Cass asks, eventually.

Bull hums. "Don't know. Mae'll want him back, I'm sure. Depends on what he wants to do, I guess."

Cassandra grimaces slightly. "It may be… easier, for Dorian, to live as the initiates do for a few months. It's untested, but I believe some of the failure rate among the once-Tranquil is because they crave structure. Order helps direct emotion in a productive way, so it does not overwhelm the — well," she says, and clears her throat. "It worked for me, and for many Seekers before me. I believe a structured life could provide Dorian with support, while he does the difficult work of rebuilding his mind."

Bull huffs. "He's not going to find much structure travelling with me and the boys."

Cass reaches out and puts her hand on his. "You are welcome as well, my friend. For as long as both of you need."

Bull flips his hand so their fingers lace together, and puts his other hand on top. "Thanks, Seeker."

***

He's no Seeker. And Dorian, well, Dorian needs no keeper, so Bull finds himself at odds after they break from breakfast and Dorian is invited to leave with a cadre of Seekers in full ceremonial armor.

Bull walks the fortress for a while, eventually finding a small library nook with a balcony overlooking the centre courtyard of the hold. He's deep in some tome about the ancient Pentaghast dragon hunter dynasty when he spies Dorian, briefly, walking through the courtyard. He's flanked by Seekers and dressed in white like a Chantry postulant, a simple robe no doubt said to be evocative of Andraste the day she burned at the stake, or some pious bullshit. But it's ritual, he thinks to himself. There's importance in ritual.

As if he can see Bull's gaze on him, Dorian cants his face to the sun. Under the shade of his hand, Dorian's eyes meet Bull's for a scant second before glancing away. Bull finds himself staring as the group disappears into the shade of the hold, finds himself looking at that spot a while before forcing himself to sit down again with his book.

It will take time. He can give Dorian time.

***

A runner comes to get him, just as Bull is considering an early dinner, to let him know the ritual is complete. When Bull questions her, she can only shake her head — only a messenger.

He follows her down through the keep and into the cool darkness of its undercroft. There's a moment where he can feel the skitter of ancient protective magic across his skin, like handfuls of spiders, but it leaves as quickly as it comes and then they are there, outside the warded ritual room.

Seekers are already filing out, slipping past him up the stairwell. No one answers his questioning gaze. He watches their faces, tries to see if it's on purpose, feels his stomach harden into a cold knot when it becomes clear that it is.

Cass is the last of the Seekers to leave the room. Bull meets her eye, knows the question is written all over his face despite all of his training.

The tight shake of Cassandra's head is nearly imperceivable.

He feels his mind of blank in self-preservation as he pushes past her into the room. There's a few unarmored initiates putting away the ritual implements, but he only has a mind for Dorian. Dorian, still on his knees in the middle of the room, white-clad, speaking quietly with someone leaning over him to wipe chalk from his forehead.

Bull's not quiet. Dorian turns away from the attendant at the noise of his brace clanging on the stone.

"The Iron Bull," he greets him, his voice even and calm.

***

The last thing Bull wants to see as he comes up the stairs is Cole, in the windowsill, rimmed with gold as the sunlight catches on him. "Get lost," he growls, turning from the spirit before the swell of anger crests.

"Dreaming, desiring, discerning; drawn too close to be denied," Cole says. Bull doesn't hear his footsteps following him, but Cole's voice doesn't get any quieter as Bull puts distance between them. "It can't stay here, The Iron Bull."

"I know that," Bull says, gritting his teeth. "Didn't see anything here worth staying for."

"It wants to stay, The Iron Bull. He wants it to stay, too."

When he slams the door to his quarters closed, he knows it's only Cole's inherent compassion that keeps the spirit, and the words, from following him.

***

It's well dark before Bull's hands stop shaking enough to write the letters he must.

 _Magister Tilani_ , Bull writes, then crosses it out. He doesn't even get a new piece of paper, just writes underneath:

_Mae,_

He'll write up a nicer copy later.

_I regret to inform you,_

He crosses that out as well.

_The ritual was unsuccessful. Before ~~Cassandra~~ Seeker Pentaghast put a stop to the practice in the new Order, if a Seeker initiate couldn't be cured of Tranquility, they said the initiate had failed their vigil. All the Seekers will say now is that a spirit couldn't be tempted to cross the Veil for Dorian._

Bull crosses out _Dorian_ , writes _our mutual friend_ , then crumples the paper and throws it into the fire.

_Krem,_

_Going to be a bit longer up north, can't say how long yet. Take care of our boys._

Bull nods and sets that one aside.

 _Mae,_ he begins again on another piece of paper, the stares at it for a long time before writing:

_No luck here so far. Our mutual friend remains in good spirits, given the circumstances._

_My contact here says that cleansing the body as well as the mind was once integral to the success of the ritual, so we have decided to stay through Matrinalus and try again._

He stares at the words for a long time, until his vision becomes watery. He blinks and looks away before a tear can fall and mar his work, but it's close. He sits back and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye, slouching as much as is possible in the narrow, straight-backed chair. The sound of the fire popping keeps him company a while, almost meditative. The while stretches into a much longer while than he expected, because when he's jolted back into awareness by a knock at the door, the fire has burned down to glowing coals.

He takes a deep breath and is surprised by the wetness that rattles in his sinuses, speaking of unshed tears. He clears his throat, attempting to dislodge some of it before he can trust his voice.

"Come in," he says, sitting up straighter in his chair.

He almost expects Cassandra, come to check on him with some more of the bitter Andelfels lager, but the door swings open to reveal only Dorian. Bull's not sure how to describe the feeling in his chest, a feeling of tightening and then falling.

He can identify one feeling, though: guilt, because he realizes in that moment that Dorian is the last person he wants to see. The realization leaves him cold.

"The Iron Bull," Dorian greets him. He looks bathed, hair tousled, moustache soft and gently awry. There's a hint of grey chalk at his hairline still, stubbornly clinging to the shorn edges. The casual disregard for his appearance is just another discordant note. "You were not present at dinner. Are you well?"

"Yeah," Bull says, then shrugs. "No, y'know, I'm not. I will be. I just need some time."

Dorian crosses the small room and sits on the edge of the bed, still close enough to the Bull that their knees almost touch. He folds his hands in his lap. "Can I be of assistance?"

Bull thinks long and hard before answering, or at least makes a show of it. He knows a few ways to work through painful emotions, and none of them are an option with Dorian. "No," he eventually says, slowly. "Not right now."

"My presence makes you unhappy," Dorian says, neither accusation nor empathy in his voice.

"That's not…" Bull pauses to sigh, slumping his shoulders. "That's not entirely true."

"There is no need to spare my feelings, The Iron Bull. I only seek clarification."

"For yourself, or for me?"

Dorian tilts his head. His lips are chapped from the wind, cracking around his artificial smile. "I do not require clarification of what is obvious."

Bull huffs, something that could have been a laugh once. "Obvious, huh? I must be losing my touch."

"Only to those who know you as well as I remember," Dorian answers. His smile deepens awkwardly, still not reaching his eyes.

"Yeah," Bull mutters. "I'm… fine, Dorian."

"That is a lie, The Iron Bull."

Bull sighs. "Yeah. It is."

Dorian gently places his hand over Bull's. "I serve only at your pleasure, The Iron Bull," he says, meeting Bull's eye with an unwavering calm. "If knowing I will likely remain Tranquil for the rest of my life only brings you pain, you have only to send me away."

Bull freezes — literally, feels the cold rushing into the space left by the beat his heart skips, plummeting down his spine — knows his heart parses the words before his brain because words can't keep up. "I—" he says, then closes his mouth. 

"The failure of the ritual was absolute. The Seekers may try again, but there is an overwhelming chance that I will never be the person you remember," Dorian says. "There is no need to cling to the memory of who I was before I became Tranquil. You owe me no debt."

Bull wants to ask, _are you breaking up with me_ , and immediately recognizes how absurd that sounds. You can't end a relationship when none existed. Surely, one doesn't exist now, and even the past few weeks with Dorian, in absentia, have cast a long shadow over the preceding years.

 _Amatus_ , Dorian had called him, once, a thousand times. _Kadan_ , Bull had called him, likewise. Beloved, my heart, but never _I love_ , never in the way that counted. Never in a way that had forced Bull to confront the truth, to overcome a lifetime of believing love served no purpose. Never admitting to himself that Dorian had become, as Cassandra had so aptly and so easily described, _the man he loves_.

How could it have been real? It seems so far away, slipping from his grasp like grains of sand.

"I can't," Bull starts, but can't continue.

He could. He sees his whole life, however long it may yet be, stretched out before him: Krem and his boys; battlefields at noon, soirees in the evening, taverns at night; song, drink, the company of men and women who are genuinely pleased by his presence, who delight in his touch.

He thinks about never touching Dorian again, never brushing his hair from his forehead, never seeing his face relaxed in sleep. Tries to think whether it'd be easier to be removed by distance, or to be close to him and yet never being able to bridge the gap regardless. And he knows the answer.

This, then: Dorian growing old, the lines around his eyes deepening, the hair at his temples shot through with grey. Retiring to a quiet life in a villa by the sea, with a well-stocked library and nothing but time. Dorian curled into a window seat in the sunlight, his hands ink-stained and sure. Change in the Magisterium at Mae's hand, bolstered by Dorian's silent support. The contentedness of a purpose well served.

He deserves his rest. And Bull — Bull doesn't deserve Dorian, no more than a man _deserves_ a life of his choosing. _Asit tal-eb._

"I can't, Dorian," Bull says again, and this time the tears do break free, scalding his eye with their sudden intensity. He feels himself fall from the chair, knees hitting the floor as he bends his head to Dorian's lap.

He can't be so selfish, is what he means to say.

He can't face a life without Dorian, is what he means to say.

He burns with a fierce and fatalistic hatred, he means to say, for having to make the choice, and for being robbed of the choice in the same breath. For everything that could have been, locked forever behind Dorian's depthless eyes.

Bull turns his head into Dorian's lap, burying his face in the folds of his robe. _Please_ , he thinks, _I need him. Don't take away the man I love_.

The tears flooding his eye seem to magnify the light from the fireplace, its warmth and brightness swelling like the sun come to ground. He can't help but turn away, closing his eye as the room goes white with such force that it makes his ears ring.

 _I am Devotion,_ he hears from above, a voice as pure and clean as mountain water, underlaid with Dorian's warm tenor. _And I have Chosen_.

And then, after a crisp overwhelming pain, silence. Only the feeling of Dorian's robes under his scarred face, Dorian's hands light and warm on his scalp. The fire crackling in the hearth, renewed.

"Bull," he hears from above again, this time the voice only tender. "Bull?"

Bull draws in a shaking breath. He can't bear it.

Dorian's hands run over the ridges of his scalp, the cracked fissures where flesh gives way to horn, and down the outline of his cheek still wet from his tears. They cup his jaw, gently willing Bull's head to rise from Dorian's lap.

"Bull," Dorian says, once more, in a voice so fond that Bull can hardly stand it, Dorian's smile a living thing written across his whole face. Bull surges to his knees only to meet Dorian leaning down, their lips meeting in the middle for what feels like — oh — for — for the first time in so long that it's all Bull can do to press his trembling lips to Dorian's and let himself be kissed.

Dorian kisses him like a man prays at an altar, fervent and worshipful and demanding all at once; when he finally pulls free of Bull it's only to wipe at the tears that have started to course down his cheeks.

"I feel— I feel—" Dorian manages, before his face betrays him and crumples under the pressure of holding back the inevitable indignity. "Oh, Maker, I feel — _everything_ ," he manages, between great wet sobs. He manages to draw in a shuddering breath, and the exhale carries an edge of hysteria that bleeds into a laugh that shakes his whole body.

Bull reaches up to cup Dorian's head in one hand, the other going to his forehead. He brushes away Dorian's hair, fingers tracing over the three shallow indentations that remain, their hollows now dark and dormant.

Dorian takes Bull by the wrists and guides him so that he can press both his cheeks to Bull's palms. Bull strokes the delicate skin under his eyes, smearing the tears where they clump thickly between Dorian's lashes as he laughs. Dorian's hands clutch Bull at the wrist like nothing else has ever been more important, more necessary for life, his nails digging crescents into Bull's flesh.

He can't help it: he pulls Dorian down the last few inches to kiss his laughing mouth, to pepper his wet cheeks with kisses. From there it's quick work to ease Dorian off the bed and into his lap and just hold him while Dorian shakes with laughter, trembles with tears, writhes with a fury that makes him twist in Bull's grip and gouge marks in his chest before the tears overtake him again.

He can bear it.

He'll bear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, technically an epilogue! Thank you for trusting me to lead you through the dark. We're almost there.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no content warnings in this chapter, other than passing mention of non-specific mental illness.

It's just come spring, and Bull is gardening. To be more specific, he is lying in the garden, looking up at the trees and their sprigs of new green buds, a few contrary clouds of white spring blossoms crowding them out in their time. He's taken the gardening tools out from the shed, and that's a victory, he thinks, closing his eye and letting the first real sun of the year warm his face.

He's lying in the unturned carrot bed at the moment, feet where the green onions will go. Somewhere to his right, three wooden beehives lay empty, waiting for the village beekeeper to split a hive for them. If he reaches out with his left, he can nearly reach the trellis where the cucumbers and tomatoes will climb in the summer. No matter. It's only the first day of spring. It'll keep.

Bull's not good at gardening. Oh, he thought he would be; nurturing a garden isn't so much different than taking care of his boys, but he hasn't done that in some time, either. No, he's no good at it so far, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it. There's something fulfilling about the dirt under his fingernails, about dropping seeds into little furrows and hoping they take root, like planting a wish. It's nice. It's calming. He's shit at it, but it's calming.

He breathes in the thick smell of loamy earth, scratching idly at his belly. Relaxing is a new practice for him. It'd been six long months at Seekers Hold through the autumn and winter, made worse that by the end of it, the roads had been so choked with snow that they couldn't leave even when they wanted to. Bull'd never wintered in a fortress, and by the end of it fervently wished to never have to again. 

Cassandra had been right to suggest they stay, though. Though the months were long and bitter cold, there had always been work to do. They'd both taken on an initiate's daily workload, a strict regimen of combat training, study, labour, and prayer — well, Bull figures he was supposed to pray, but no one had held it against him when he swapped that part of the day for meditation.

Part of the reason they'd stayed at first was because the Seekers were spooked, for good reason, by a spirit lingering on this side of the Veil long enough to wait, outside the safe bounds of the ritual, to be _compelled_ to touch Dorian's mind. No one could say he hadn't rather been possessed. And no one, Dorian included, wanted another Kirkwall incident. There'd been no shortage of nights where he'd lain awake beside Dorian, thinking of ways to destroy a demon wearing his face. But the months had passed, and Dorian had exhibited no ill signs… other than the ones they expected. 

The mood swings had been tremendous, and even more so, a panic that seemed to grip Dorian at the slightest choice: what to wear, what to eat, whether to read a book or go for a walk. There had been times that Bull had felt they stood in the middle of a hurricane, and he could only hold on to Dorian as tightly as he could to keep him from being swept away in the emotions that threatened to overwhelm them both. The Seekers encouraged him to let go, unclenching finger by finger, to let Dorian find his own way back to himself. The routine was _scaffolding for Dorian to rebuild the house of his mind_ , they'd said, and they'd been right.

Still. Once they left, in the first city they passed that wasn't a podunk border town they'd nearly done the tavern in for drinking. Further drunk from the freedom, they'd slept away most of the next day besides. Bull had sent on word for the Chargers to meet them there before they'd left Seekers Hold; by the next night they'd arrived as well, and between the eight of them they'd _actually_ managed to drink the tavern dry. Bull doesn't remember much from that night but how much he'd missed his boys, how nice Dorian had felt tucked against his side, face red from the drink and from the singing.

He'd had to pull Krem aside the next day to talk about the future of the Chargers, and was… well, someone else may have been surprised, but as Krem walked him through the ledgers with no small amount of pride, Bull knew. Avoidable injuries were lower, the average takes higher. The Chargers had been in good hands, just like he'd thought. There was no need to make it official — he was just taking leave, that's all — but as he embraced Krem as a peer — as a brother — they both knew. It'd be a long time before anything could make Bull leave Dorian again.

From there it'd been two weeks to Mae, who upon their arrival had shrieked and embraced them, first in turns, and then both at once. Her summer home — Bull couldn't risk either of them being seen in Minrathous — had been cold and inhospitable that time of year, but they'd stayed a week regardless. Dorian and Mae'd had their heads together in conspiracy so often that Bull had eventually taken to removing himself for long walks and even longer naps, like a grandfather, just to give them their time.

The weather was shit in southern Tevinter that time of year, and when they'd both started to look cagey with cabin fever, Mae had given them one more gift: a little spot of land in the southeast, nearly in the Free Marches, with a little villa, and a little garden, and little beehives waiting for little bees.

Bull digs his fingers into the earth and buries his mind deep in it too, lets the world spin around him. The gardening can wait, too.

_"Kaffas!"_

Bull is up in a shot, because Dorian's sudden swearing from inside the house is accompanied by the sound of plates breaking — one, then another, then a third that must go through a window because he can hear the glass breaking from here.

He doesn't run into the house like it's on fire, which would be ridiculous, but he does hurry; anything involving wanton destruction of property is usually his purview. When he ducks through the door into the kitchen, Dorian is gripping a fourth plate and staring at it like he'd like to melt it into glass. And he's crying.

Bull lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Dorian," he says, gently. "Dorian, it's okay. Take a breath."

Dorian's face falls and he purposefully sets the plate down on the counter before inhaling deeply through his nose. He holds it a few seconds before exhaling out his mouth, and Bull can see his shoulders sag.

He crosses the room to take Dorian in his arms. "What did the plates do to you?"

Dorian squirms until he can free a hand to wipe his face. "You can't leave food on your plate. You have to scrape it, or… or they have to soak, and—" he trails off, turning his head into Bull's chest, then huffs a little laugh. "It's nothing, truly. I apologize."

Bull rubs his lips against the top of Dorian's head. "Whatever you say, big guy. Apology accepted."

"It's not..." Dorian starts, then lifts his head so he's not mumbling into Bull's nipple, "It's been awhile since it's been like this."

Bull hums and traces big, lazy patterns over Dorian's broad back. "It's been different," he says, "The Seekers told us that changes in routine'll be overwhelming for a while."

Dorian lets out a frustrated noise and sags in Bull's arms. "I don't want to do this any more," he mutters.

Bull's heart catches in his chest — he knows Dorian doesn't mean what Bull thinks he means, not after this long out of the woods, but Cassandra's dire warning regarding people who _choose_ Tranquility still rings in his head. He holds Dorian a little tighter. "You just need to wait until Mae clears your name in the Magisterium," he says, "then you can lay waste to those pompous assholes and salt their ashes."

"I can't go like this," Dorian says, and then in a higher voice: "Did you see Magister Pavus? Burst into tears when his bill failed, then lit everything on fire."

Bull laughs and squeezes Dorian's shoulders. "It'll take some time, but you'll find it again. Want me to hit you with the feelings stick?"

Dorian's hands ghost down Bull's sides, a prelude to a tickle that Bull subverts by spinning Dorian in his arms to press him against the kitchen island, hands held behind his back. Dorian arches into him, a dirty trick Bull has an appreciation for nonetheless.

Touching Dorian with intent, rather than _guilt_ , is still thrilling. Bull leans in to touch his lips to Dorian's bare neck, teasing the hairs there with his breath.

"Is that what you're calling it now?" Dorian murmurs, leaning over to rest his head and chest on the counter. The movement pushes him back into Bull, and the warm pressure makes Bull growl and push Dorian down just that little bit harder, just to see his eyes close and his mouth fall open so pretty, so inviting.

"Yes, here," Dorian breathes, hooking one foot behind Bull's leg to draw him closer.

"Bossy," Bull mutters, digging his fingers into the meat of Dorian's shoulderblades with one hand as he tightens his grip on Dorian's wrists with the other.

Dorian groans and writhes back, putting up a gossamer resistance. "I just — ah! — know what I want," he gasps.

Bull pauses, lets go of Dorian to stroke gently down his back. Dorian opens his eyes and looks back, catching Bull's eye with a soft smile. Bull can't even speak.

"I know what I want," Dorian repeats. His cheeks are flushed already, eyes dark and gleaming. "So get on with it, if you please."

Bull growls and digs his fingers into Dorian's thighs. "Hike up these skirts then, big guy. Hold them out of the way for me if you want it so bad."

Who is Bull to deny Dorian what he wants?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on this journey, and for trusting me to lead you out the other side, and for the increasingly lovely comments! I treasure every one of them.
> 
> Big thanks to betas and cheerleaders Katy, Syd, and James, and also to koutou for illustrating not [once](http://sometrashland.tumblr.com/post/129985041483/), but [TWICE](http://sometrashland.tumblr.com/post/130131152893/for-lindsay-based-on-this-amazing-fic-wip) for this fic, which is seriously incredible and I am so humbled and awed, thank you so much. <33

**Author's Note:**

> I draw things! Increasingly, I write them! Find me [on Tumblr!](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com)


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